On the Horizon
by Equilly
Summary: Aragorn tells a story of a good deed that remains etched in the past, present, and future. Complete.


A/N: This story is NOT compliant with my story Nostos; this Lothíriel, and some of the writing in this story, originates with another version of her story that I called the Epic of Harad, but seeing as how it's a struggle to even finish Nostos, I doubt that I'll ever post a full version of the Epic. I don't think Lothíriel's story will be difficult to understand, but if it is, please let me know and I will edit this!

Reviews are, as always, lovely and amazing.

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><p>Title: On the Horizon<p>

Rating: K+

Characters: Aragorn, Lothíriel, Éomer, Imrahil

Summary: Aragorn tells a story of a simple kindness that remains etched in the past, present, and future.

Disclaimer: I own neither _Lord of the Rings_ nor _The English Patient_, from which I have quoted.

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><p><em>On the Horizon<em>

_._

"We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves."

-Michael Ondaatje

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><p><em>Along the Eastern Road, Harad<em>

_Third Age 3014_

The sky spreads above her like dark velvet, and she stops to sit cross-legged at the edge of the road, setting out her salvaged scraps of flatbread. It is a meager meal but she eats with quiet reverence as though she is a queen, each movement careful and refined. On either side the desert rolls on to the horizon, like gentle sandy waves silhouetted by the silvering moon, and it seems to her very lonely and empty.

She is accustomed to a world of constant movement, for though she is unimportant- caught between girl and woman, between countries and cultures and loves and languages, between motion and stillness, between awkwardness and grace, between right and wrong- her life brushed so many others; she existed in a world of color and song and swirling sand and voices.

Her mother, golden skin and flashing white teeth, her voice- low and sensuous, rising, falling, smooth and sleek as a cat; bracelets that sing on her wrists, the flashing gem at her throat, her slender hands tracing the pattern of her words.

But stillness runs deeply in her blood; if she strains, turning her mind to the years Before, she can remember silver eyes and a quiet, peaceful smile: her father, his face elven-smooth, each movement imbued with quiet reverence. She has forgotten the sound of his voice, the shape of his smile, the grip of his hands on hers, for he has faded to a vague, colorless memory, distant but for remembered stillness and his absolute peace. Here in the desert she grows more and more like her father and less and less like her beautiful, restless mother. There is beauty in the desert, but she finds herself longing for water, for deep, cool springs and fast-flowing rivers, for the vague rising and falling of the tide and the pounding breakers on the sand.

Her tongue is heavy and dry in her mouth and she must carefully ration her water. Each drop is precious.

And the night sweeps on and she is gone, a tiny little specter in the vastness of the desert.

.

_Rohan_

_Third Age 3019_

"It reminds me of the desert," she says and regrets it almost immediately. She can scarcely make out her father's face in the leaping flickering glow cast by the firelight, but she knows he recoiled as though stabbed.

"Did you read that in one of your books, Princess?" Éomer King, cross and irritable, as he has been all day. Even their newly pitched tents and a hot meal have done nothing to assuage the man's temper.

"No," she replies evenly, more her for her father's sake than her own. She has noticed that in the past weeks the silver hair has sunk deeper roots into his hair and the crows' feet at his eyes grown more pronounced, growing older before her very eyes. She feels as though he is a china teacup that might shatter if she grasps it too tightly.

She thinks the king- Aragorn, he has told her to call him, but she cannot muster the courage to untie the knots her tongue winds itself into whenever the new king of Gondor speaks to her- notices her father's sudden weakness, too, for though he is puffing with seeming unconcern on his pipe, she sees that his eyes are very sharp.

"Then there is no need to speak of it as if you know it," says Éomer King sharply.

He reminds her of a caged lion, pacing, flashing, ready to explode. She knows she should not be hurt: his sister is to be married soon, he bears with them his beloved uncle's casket, he has been suddenly thrust into kingship, his land and peoples are ravaged by war and drought and years of hardship; the blood of his men soaks deep into Gondor's lands.

Still she cannot help but flinch a little because she knows he thinks very poorly of her. It is her own fault; she had been a foolish, blushing princess when they first met and she had even tried her hand at something like flirtation. She tells herself that he cannot understand her and draws her knees to her chest.

"Only four days till Edoras," says the king- Aragorn, she reminds herself again firmly- very mildly but with his great sea of strength lurking beneath. "And then you'll be rid of all your unwanted companions."

The other man expels a heavy breath, looking around at the campground. They have flung themselves at this strange barren land with a vengeance; Lothíriel sees that they have already spread out through the thicket along the river to search for game and to fell some of the trees for the fires. The scars are faint but unmistakable on this once pristine place.

In the place of untamed savagery is their courtly loveliness; elegantly bred horses, some better behaved than their masters and mistresses, fine silks and satins doused in mud. They have unpacked their china, their wrapped dainties brought from the city, and the clearing rings with laughter and loud chirping voices.

"Damn them," says the king of Rohan. "Damn them all."

There is no venom in his voice, only weariness, and it is an intensely private moment and Lothíriel knows she is an outsider; she turns her head. She is the only woman among them; Éowyn has left their fire to walk with Faramir, and so Lothíriel sits with her brothers, her father, and the two kings.

"Sometimes," says the king of Gondor, "when we are lost we find help in the strangest of places."

.

I crossed the River Poros for the first time nearly ten years ago; there Ithilien gives way to Harad and slowly but surely it grows into empty, barren sand. It was only a matter of days before I grew feverish from the heat and I stopped for a few days to rest before pressing on along the Great Harad Road.

The Eastern Road runs away from all civilization, into the deepest corners of southeastern Harad, and it was there that I turned, deciding to make my way. There is something beautiful about the desert at night clean lines where the sky touches the sand and it stretches on forever, or so it seems. In the desert there is no reality, only illusion.

.

"Not one of your smartest ideas," mutters Éomer King.

Lothíriel sits very quietly.

.

I do not remember what happened exactly. Time becomes more fluid when you are dazed and I was. I wandered off the road for some time, lost myself, and I remember stumbling and thinking that I would die, that I would never see

.

He falls silent and his face is grave and thoughtful.

"I never thought I would die alone in some distant corner of the world," he says. "But there I was."

They all watch him, spellbound; it is not the words but his gestures, the eloquence in the velvet of his voice, his unshakeable calm.

.

The days had stretched to nothingness, or so it seemed; she woke early in the morning and walked, and then slept through the heat of noon, then walked late in to the night, and she was the only one in the world. The desert spread out her like a great vast world of her own, swooping and clean and unbearably hot and her tongue was heavy in her mouth, sweat dampening the back of her neck, and

There.

A figure.

He was prone and grey-faced, dark hair matted with sweat; she felt for a pulse. It was there, but his skin was clammy.

He needed water.

She sat with him for days, she thought, rationing her precious water; she spoke to him, first in Haradric and then in beautiful, silvery Sindarin. He did not stir and she dribbled water into his dry mouth.

Night came and she wrapped herself in her cloak. His face beneath the angry flush of the sunburn was strangely beautiful and still as though carved from granite; kingly, she thought, as if he had sprung from some legend of old.

"Where I come from," she said to him, "we have gardens. Plum gardens. We water them everyday. And roses. And the sea ,"

And gradually he began to stir to life, slowly, quietly.

.

She never knew his name.

.

"I never knew who it was that saved me," says Aragorn. "Only that I should have died, and a girl-child saved my life."

"What happened after that?" Amrothos, insatiably curious as always.

Éomer King seems as if he is listening.

Aragorn taps out his pipe. "She took me as far as the junction with the Great Harad Road. It was a long slow journey and we nearly ran out of water before we arrived at the next oasis."

"Must have been humbling," says Amrothos. "Me, I'd rather die than be saved by a little girl."

Lothíriel traces patterns on her trouser-covered knees and finds that Aragorn has turned to glance at her very briefly.

"I thought then," he says, "that my life was too dear a gift to spend regretting what might have been."

Éomer King nods. He looks pensive.

"It is late," says her father, breaking the strange wonderful stillness that settles over them, "Thiri, we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow ,"

"All right," she says, pushing herself to her feet and smothering her indignation at being treated as a child. "Good-night."

Éomer King too rises and falls in step with her as she retreats.

"I wanted to apologize," he says abruptly and she turns to face him, startled.

"Your Majesty?"

He waves it away with an impatient hand. "I should not have been rude. You did nothing to deserve it and I let my temper get the best of me. It will not happen again. You have my word."

A stilted apology, but an apology nonetheless.

They stand facing each other and she sees the same lines of weariness in his face that she had seen in her father's, albeit fainter, and she thinks that while she might be just a girl he might just be a boy, too. Just as she yearns to be more than her father's little daughter so too might he want to be free from his childhood, too; he is to be king and yet still imprisoned in his youth.

In the distance a woman laughs; his face spasms and she knows it is his sister.

The night is still and silent, anticipatory.

"I accept," she says and before she slips away she hears him call to her once more.

"Have you seen the desert?"

"My mother was a lady of Harad," she says.

There is sudden comprehension in his face and he bows very deeply to her. "Good-night, Your Highness."

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><p>Sometimes we appear out of nothingness, perhaps an illusion on a mirage hovering on the horizon. Sometimes the past turns into a vague haze of memory and yet reaches forward to our future.<p>

Sometimes people are not what we thought they might be, they tell her, but she knows that people do not exist, that we are a sculpture formed of clay, ever-changing, ever-shifting, a myriad of colors that gleam and change in the light of the sun.

We are our loves and our fears, our dreams and secrets; we are what we have seen, we are what we strive for, we are the mirage we reach for that lingers just beyond our grasp on the horizon.

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><p>AN: So, I get all my inspiration at 11:00 at night when I should be doing homework/getting ready to go to bed. I'll revise this in the morning but like all my stories, this turned out to be kind of weird.

Please review.

First Draft: 6/7 October 2011 (1:41 AM)

Edited: 10 October 2011


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